


painless with a great closeness

by mosaicofhearts



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, Like, M/M, Magic, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, i think ??, kinda i guess, newt pines, tbh more angsty than anticipated but, thomas is a terrible warlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 00:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosaicofhearts/pseuds/mosaicofhearts
Summary: “Yeah, mate, 'course I'll help you,” he bites back a second long-suffering sigh, knowing deep down that this will be another decision that he'll come to regret (because lord does Thomas ever make him rue helping him out with this magic stuff). “Just, please – please don't burn anything this time.”The sheepish expression on Thomas' face lasts only a few seconds more before he's whooping and tugging Newt into a one armed hug and – yeah, okay, maybe it won't be so bad after all.----Or: The one where Thomas is really bad at the magic and everything goes wrong.





	painless with a great closeness

**Author's Note:**

> wow, two fics in two days? will never happen again
> 
> anyway, here is something a little more lighthearted!! still kinda angsty but. there's a happy ending. we stan happy endings.
> 
> unbeta'd as always!

“Newt, hey, how are – look, I need your help.”

The hurried, breathless tone is of that barely above a whisper (most probably due to the exertion evident across the dark haired boys features), yet still it is enough to bring about a familiar throbbing effect in Newt's temple. He lets out an already regretful sigh, squeezes his eyes shut for longer than is totally necessary and – no, that didn't work. Thomas is still standing there when they reopen.

He takes in the hopeful, wide-eyed expression upon his best friends face and immediately forgets any notion he may have had to say _no, sorry, I can't_ for once. Not for the first time, Newt is glad that Minho (or any of their so-called friends, for that matter) isn't around to laugh knowingly at him. He scowls a little at the thought, expression immediately smoothing over when he notices Thomas frowning across at him.

“Tommy,” he greets finally, moving his stack of papers to the side and turning to give the other his full attention. “What is it?”

“School project – I asked some of the guys but, uh, they said they're too busy with their own things, I guess, so...” Thomas at least has the decency to look sheepish as he shrugs his shoulders, gaze imploring. “I promise it won't be like last time.”

Newt winces despite himself, hopes that it isn't too obvious – because, well, the thing is – he knows too bloody well why 'the guys' don't want to help him, and it's nothing to do with their own work and everything to do with Tommy's capabilities. Or lack thereof.

See, Newt's never actually met a Warlock who's quite as hopeless as Thomas and, ever since the WCKD Accords which allowed those of the magical type to reveal themselves and integrate openly with society, Newt's met a _lot_ of Warlocks and Witches. Hell, the college they both attend has more than its fair share of magic folk, being one of the most prestigious integrated academies around, and perhaps that makes it even more difficult, given that some of their closest friends are of the same variety. And a lot better at what they do.

Not that Newt would ever tell Tommy that, of course.

“Yeah, mate, 'course I'll help you,” he bites back a second long-suffering sigh, knowing deep down that this will be another decision that he'll come to regret (because _lord_ does Thomas ever make him rue helping him out with this magic stuff). “Just, please – _please_ don't burn anything this time.”

The sheepish expression on Thomas' face lasts only a few seconds more before he's whooping and tugging Newt into a one armed hug and – yeah, okay, maybe it won't be so bad after all.

Right?

 

\- - -

 

Minho is there perched across the back of the sofa and casting his knowing gaze upon him the moment Newt enters the apartment and, honestly, why is he even surprised anymore? He makes the effort to purposely ignore the other, tugging his shoes off with slow, practised movements and refusing to make eye contact.

For as long as possible.

Which isn't that long (it never is). He hates the way his skin crawls when someone is staring at him so obviously, can never seem to shake the sensation bubbling beneath the exterior that makes him uncomfortable and maybe a little anxious. So, finally, he swings around to glare at his friend, throwing his arms outwards, “Yes? What? Can I help you?”

If Minho is surprised by the slight outburst, he doesn't show it. Probably because he isn't. He just grins, slow and wide, until little barks of laughter are slipping through his lips and he's shaking his head in faux disbelief.

“You actually agreed to help him, then? I'd say I can't believe he's roped you in again, but... it's not like it's a shock to anybody.”

Newt _hates_ him. He hates them all. He makes his feelings known by throwing one of his shoes across the room in Minho's direction, only missing because he'd feel bad if it'd actually hit its mark.

“ _Shut up_ ,” he hisses without the fire, eyes rolling even as pink rises to his porcelain cheeks. “This is all your fault. You're far more equipped to deal with this than I am.”

That earns him another laugh – a guffaw, really. “No way. Nuh. Nope. Not happening. Like, ever. I'm still having nightmares after the last time I helped.”

“That was _two years_ ago!” Newt exclaims, a mixture of disbelief and horror etched upon his face. “It can't possibly have been that bad...”

Even to his own ears his voice sounds uncertain and he's groaning and burying his face in his hands before he can think about it. The thing is, Thomas is worse than bad. He's terrible. He can't seem to do anything right when it comes to magic, and it's a wonder he hasn't flunked out of his magical classes yet, but he's always so damn hopeful and he _tries_. He tries so hard. Anyone could see that. So maybe Newt takes pity on him, or maybe it's about something a lot more than that, but.

Even he knows that this is a terrible idea. Whatever it is.

A strong hand lands upon his shoulder, squeezing in a way that would be comforting were it not for the humour thick in Minho's tone. “Try to look on the bright side... you get to spend time with him?”

He ducks away from the flying punch Newt attempts to land and leaves the room positively cackling.

 

\- - -

 

Thomas is bouncing from foot to foot, and Newt can't tell whether it's excitement or nerves. He decides quickly that its better if he doesn't know. Especially considering he's nervous enough for the both of them – he can feel the coil unfurling itself in the pit of his stomach, the uneasiness that settles around him whenever he's involving himself in magic. Despite the fact that the majority of his friends are, somehow, Warlocks and Witches these days, he's still never managed to be fully comfortable with it all; not when it involves him, anyway.

Another reason why he should just say 'no' to Tommy. It isn't like the younger boy wouldn't understand – he would, more than anyone. He'd apologise, those warm, brown eyes filling with emotion that Newt doesn't know how to deal with, and then he'd suggest they do something else, something as far detached from magic as possible.

Newt can't quite manage it, though; doesn't want to see the disappointment in his friends face, or the slight sadness when he realises he's got nobody to help him on this project.

Speaking of – Newt still has no idea what the project entails.

They're stood in the attic which, yeah, it's a cliché in itself, standing around some intricate witchy designs chalked onto the ground in white that Newt doesn't understand and doesn't _want_ to understand, thank you very much, and there's – candles. Always with the candles.

He takes a deep, slightly shaky breath, presses his fingertips to his forehead briefly, and then looks across at Thomas. “What do you need me to do, exactly?”

“Right,” Thomas claps his hands together, brow furrowed as he thinks, all business now, and he does _look_ as though he knows what he's doing. Unfortunately, Newt knows enough to know that this isn't the case at all.

“I just need you to stay outside of the circle, just – there, perfect. And just repeat this, maybe .. three times? Yeah, yeah – three times... _incendium, ignis, ardor_.” Dark eyes meet and he nods his head reassuringly, a hesitant smile sparking across his lips. “It should conjure a fire. A harmless one – non-burning. Good?”

Newt absolutely does _not_ shudder at the – Latin, he thinks. Probably Latin. He doesn't, because it's not sexy at all. In fact, it's the opposite. He turns to face the wall for a moment, to gather some semblance of his being back, and to repeat the words inside his own head lest he forget them.

He turns with a nod, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Good that.”

Thomas busies himself with preparation that Newt knows nothing about, moving the candles around this way and that until they're in some proper formation, frowning as he flicks through a few pages of a spellbook (and yes, those are a thing). Newt's almost positive that he has some sort of cloak on, but he knows better than to question it. Warlock quirks and all that.

Suddenly it's time, and the anxiety in Newt's stomach threatens to seep out of his mouth, but he holds it at bay. Just barely. Thomas looks – good, but that's not a surprise. Almost confident, which _is_ a surprise but not necessarily one that makes Newt feel anymore relaxed about the whole thing.

Still, he stands and watches as his friend steps into the centre of the chalked designs, murmuring some sort of incantation beneath his breath and moving his arms around in a manner that's almost graceful. Then it's Newt's turn, too soon, but he's ready – fumbles a little at first, but repeats the words like a mantra three times.

“ _Incendium, ignis, ardor... Incendium, ignis, ardor... Incendium, ignis, ardor..._ ”

For a moment, nothing seems to happen.

Thomas' face begins to fall almost instantaneously, and Newts half steps forward to comfort him before he remembers that he isn't supposed to step within the symbols and then –

All hell breaks loose in the most cliché way possible, and bloody hell, what is this? An episode of _Charmed_!?

The distinct crack of thunder booms in the distance as a howling wind suddenly seems to brew from nowhere, so loud and piercing that Newt has to clap his hands across his ears to try and drown out some of the noise. The entire building appears to be shaking from the force of it, windows rattling, and he swears that the room is tilting, ornaments flying from shelves and chairs scratching their way across the old wooden floor. For a split second, he's relieved that Minho isn't home (in fairness, Minho had been very clear that he wanted to be as far away from the apartment as possible, and, really, he had the right idea), but _god damn it_ maybe Minho could fix this,

Whatever it is.

The wind is still howling and battling, and Newt realises he's on the floor, half curled up in on himself and struggling to find purchase on something to stop himself from being taken away with the force of the movement.

He shouts out, more scared than he'd like to admit, “Tommy!”

The voice some quicker and closer than anticipated, slightly larger frame enveloping his own. “I'm here, don't – don't worry, it's fine, I – ”

Thomas doesn't finish the sentence (probably because he can't) and Newt lets out an incredulous bark of laughter because, in what world is this _fine_!?

Christ, he hates his life. And his friends. And everything. Why couldn't he just have _normal_ , non-magic mates? The world hates him, and he's probably going to die and somehow, somewhere, this is all Minho's fault. He knows it.

And then, just as suddenly as it begins, it... stops.

Just like that.

Both boys blink at one another in unison, matching confused expressions worn by both, and Newt shoots a disbelieving glance at the one window in the attic where – the night sky is blue and clear and there is absolutely no sign of a storm brewing.

Chest heaving, he looks back towards Thomas and realises exactly how close the two are; neither having moved from their position with the broader boy half pressed over him in an almost protective manner, and he scoots out from under him quickly, heat rising to his face.

“What the _fuck_ was that!?”

 

\- - -

 

It doesn't turn out to be much of anything at all. As far as either of them can tell, nothing actually happened or changed, and that's maybe the most worrying part.

Newt feels too blind when it comes to magic and the like. He has no idea about any of this, but Thomas doesn't seem to be coming up with any ideas himself, so. He takes it with a pinch of salt and tries to stop his hands from shaking, though it seems to be a moot cause. He hasn't managed to settle since it happened, and it's been a good few hours since, now.

When Minho returns home in the early hours of the morning, he finds them both still sitting at the breakfast bar looking vaguely shell-shocked.

He laughs, obviously. That bastard.

 

\- - -

 

It's a few days before Newt realises that something isn't quite right.

They settle back into normalcy and try to forget the thing ever happened (Newt because it's still definitely scary, and Thomas because it's just another failure) and it works for a while. Thomas sheepishly regales the story to the rest of their friends at a party that Saturday night and, predictably, they all find it hilarious. Teresa shakes her head fondly, because she's probably the smartest Witch any of them know, and Gally punches Newt in the arm and calls him an idiot not for the first time that semester.

Not that he'd admit it aloud, but Newt kinda agrees with him at this stage.

Thomas apologises profusely with pizza and puppy dog eyes until Newt can't even pretend to be mad at him, and it's fine. It is. It isn't like he's learnt his lesson, because lord knows the next time Thomas comes around asking for help, Newt is still going to grit his teeth and nod his head, but he's hoping that that time is far, far away from now. He doesn't really want to go into cardiac arrest at such a young age, and Sonya would absolutely kill him if he died doing something stupid.

The following Monday, Newt wakes with a start, chest heaving and breath ragged and loud with every intake and he's hot – so, so hot.

He's kicking the sheets off before he can stop himself, but it isn't helping. He feels as though he's burning up from the inside out, fingertips clawing at his own arms as though he's itching to get out of his skin. There's a thin sheen of cold sweat lacing his body, and his head pounds and pounds in a way that makes him think back to that one summer of dehydration, but he knows that that isn't this.

It takes him a moment to recall the dream he was having, the reason for the flush that's making its way along his chest – and, well, it's nothing new. Not like he's never had a sex dream about Thomas before (he has. A lot. More often than he'd care to admit), but this is definitely different.

The heat continues to consume him for a few more torturous moments that seems to trickle by like sand, and then he's collapsing from the effort of it all, breathing evening out and body temperature receding to a normal medium.

He takes a moment to stare at the ceiling in shock, before groaning to himself quietly, “what the fuck?”

 

\- - -

 

“So.. how did you sleep last night?” He's trying to for nonchalance, but Newt isn't sure he's succeeding.

As if to prove this, Thomas arches an eyebrow at him from across the table, pausing just as he's about to take a bite out of his sandwich. “Er, sorry?”

Newt huffs, rolls his eyes, and tries again, “Just... wondering, you know. Did you have a good nights sleep?”

It's weird. He knows that; he tries to palm it off as genuine care for his friends health, and he thinks he just about manages to do that, schooling his expression into one of concern.

“Uh, fine, I guess?” Thomas shrugs finally, seemingly taking it as just another one of Newt's strange ways. “No complaints.”

Newt feels himself deflate just a little at that, teeth worrying his lower lip as he summons up images of the night before, the unbearable heat, the fire of it... for a moment, he contemplates the idea that Tommy may be lying to him, but – no, definitely not. They've been best friends for years now, they don't keep things from each other (well, not the important things). Besides. Thomas is a terrible liar and Newt definitely knows his tells at this point.

He figures it must just be one of those freak fevers that sometimes strike, a minute change in the temperature that affected him adversely, and he shrugs it off for another day.

“Newt? You okay in there?”

The blonde glances up to see Thomas chuckling a little, though his eyes hold an edge of worry that has Newt's stomach turning. He shakes his head quickly, offers a smile up. “Yeah, you twat, 'course. Just had a late night s'all. Let's go watch a film, hm?”

The worry in Thomas' eyes dies just like that, giving way to a warm excitement instead. If that makes Newt's smile just a little bit stronger, no one is there to mention it.

 

\- - -

 

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

Newt prays to every God he's never believed in that he isn't actually dying.

 

\- - -

 

Minho finds him one night, curled up in on himself and sobbing because the heat is too much – it's too much, and Newt doesn't know how much more of it he can take. He's vaguely aware that the screaming he heard a few moments before was him and that's.

Oh.

Minho's face is troubled, concern for his friend evident in every crease of his countenance and oh, maybe that's because Newt is crying. Fuck.

“Newt? Newt, what is it? Are you hurt?” his voice seems distant through the fever induced fog, a palm pressing down on the blonde's forehead that actually provides a moment of cool relief.

All he can do is shake his head in response, Minho's face swimming across his blurred vision, and he knows it'll pass. It always does.

It takes a few moments that feel unbearingly long, and then Newt is pushing himself up with shaky hands and avoiding his best friends gaze (he's good at that) because, honestly, this is more than a little embarrassing.

“S-Sorry, I don't – don't know what the fuck that was.” he mumbles, shaking his head and pushing his hair back from his eyes. “It's not been that bad before...”

He realises too late that that was exactly the wrong thing to say.

“Before!?” Minho stares at him incredulously, one hand reaching for his friends wrist. “This has happened before? Since when, Newt? This isn't – this isn't right, you know that?”

Newt almost wants to laugh at that, but he just really doesn't have the energy. Instead, he rolls his eyes and falls back down onto his sheets unceremoniously. Of course none of this is right; his expression must at least give that much away, because Minho sighs and has the good grace to look at least a little sheepish.

He leaves; but not until he makes Newt promise he'll see someone about the fevers.

 

\- - -

 

“Okay,” Newt hisses, grabbing at Thomas' wrist in a way that's probably too tight, but unable to give much of a shit in that moment. “What the hell did you do to me, you shank?”

(Minho didn't specify _who_ he wanted Newt to see, right?)

Thomas looks confused, reasonably so; Newt supposes he has just basically bombarded him leaving a class, without much of an explanation, but after almost a week of sleepless nights he's had it up to here. Fuck everything else. “Uh – ”

“Don't you 'uh' me, Thomas. The _spell_ – what was it?”

“Newt, what – you're gonna have to be a bit more specific here, man, I don't know what you mean...”

In fairness, Thomas' bewilderment does look honest, and he's frowning at Newt with those stupid (adorable, lovely) eyes and Newt can feel his resolve slipping a little. Just a little. He loosens his grip, taking a step back to press at his temples, pushing his bottom lip out into a pout.

“Ever since – ” he breaks off, glancing around as though anybody may be listening to their conversation, tone hushed. “Ever since that spell in the attic, I've been – _wrong_. Ill. Like I've got a virus or something. What did you do, Tommy?”

“ A vir – no, that can't be right.” The dark haired boy is already shaking his head, frowning. “It's not... it was just a fire spell, that's all. Didn't exactly work, did it?” There's a bitterness there, expression clouding over, before he's back to himself and squinting up at Newt. “Why? What's wrong?”

Newt flushes. It isn't like he can tell the whole truth of this – that Thomas has become a recurring star in his dreams (much more so than before), dreams where he feels lips pressed against his own and hot skin so close that he doesn't know what belongs to who.

“I keep waking up. With a fever, or something, I don't know. Feels like I'm burning alive.”

At least that has some semblance of honesty about it. He can't explain it, not really, but it's some kind of torture and it keeps getting worse. Lasting longer each time it comes, until he's not sure he'll be able to hold out the next time it happens.

It isn't as though he wants to blame Thomas, but the timeline is more than a little suspicious and the whole thing stinks of magic to him.

He must have been lost in his thoughts for too long, because Thomas' hand is clasped firmly around his wrist suddenly. The reaction is instant.

It's as though he doesn't have control of his own body anymore, nor of his senses (when he looks back on it, that's exactly what he'll say). One moment they're standing in the hall with space between them, the next Newt is pushing forward with a force unbeknownst to him, barricading Thomas against the wall with his own arms.

“Uh – Newt?”

Thomas' voice is higher than usual, and that's the first thing that Newt registers. It's only then that he notes their positioning, puzzlement clouding his own features because – huh. Just a second ago they were... decidedly _not_ standing like this and –

He can smell Thomas. The cologne he wears mixed with a faint tint of sweat, more pleasant than not, as well as something spicy underlying that he can't quite put his finger on. He moves again without thinking about it, presses his face into the crease where Thomas' neck meets his shoulder, and just _inhaling_ for a moment.

Newt thinks he hears Thomas squeak faintly above him, but it's too distant. Almost as though they're underwater and all the sound around them is distorted.

Besides, all he can think about is how much he wants to press his lips to the pulse beating unsteadily beneath the skin.

So he does.

The moment his lips meet the skin he feels something akin to a spark flicker within his stomach, and it spurs him on, pressing open mouthed kisses along Thomas' neck, his jaw, nipping just a little at the skin and –

 _Thomas_.

The boy in question lets out a moan, caught on a ragged breath, and it's that which seems to bring Newt sharply back to his senses.

Violently, he pushes away from the wall, away from Thomas, almost tripping backwards over his own feet in his haste to get away. His face feels like it's on fire (and no, not in a fever way, thankfully), and he stares at his friend in shock and embarrassment, meeting only darkened eyes that seems to mirror his own feelings.

Newt does what Newt does best.

He runs.

 

\- - -

 

The following day, Minho returns home at four in the afternoon to find the curtains drawn, the apartment shrouded in darkness, and a distressed Newt cocooned in a dozen blankets on the sofa.

“I messed up.” is all the blonde manages, barely even looking Minho in the eye and unsure, exactly, of how to broach the subject.

Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on how one wished to look upon the situation – it appears that he doesn't have to.

“I know,” Minho breathes out, settling on the armchair beside the sofa and leaning forward on his knees to frown at Newt sombrely. “Teresa told me.”

And, well, that's bloody brilliant, isn't it? Newt whimpers aloud at the knowledge that Thomas has told at least Teresa about the whole damned affair. He isn't surprised necessarily, given that the two have known one another since they were kids running around naked in their parents backyards, but. Still. He would have liked to have kept this particular humiliation to himself.

“Great. Um.” he peers at Minho through long lashes, bottom lip bitten and worried. “I really don't know what came over me.”

Surprisingly, Minho purses his lips and lowers his gaze to the ground and it's then that Newt realises that he knows something Newt doesn't. Which is entirely unfair, given that this is Newt's life, really. He narrows his gaze, half expecting to have to wheedle the truth from his friend.

“Thomas told Teresa about the fevers too, and turns out you may have been – ” it isn't like Minho to falter, usually so cool and confident and easy-going, so immediately Newt is on edge and then – “There's no easy way to say this. We think Thomas accidentally cursed you that night that you helped him with his project.”

Bloody brilliant.

“Cursed!? What do you mean cursed!?” Newt is well aware that he's shrieking at this stage, but the situation seems to call for a flair of the dramatics. “Oh my god. Bloody clunking shank – I'm going to die, aren't I? Am I going to die!?”

Minho rolls his eyes now, reaching across to pinch Newt on the hand and – _ow_. But it does seem to have the desired effect of grounding him.

“No, you idiot. Teresa and me, we've got it covered, okay? We just need to reverse the spell, and then everything should be fine.” He shrugs nonchalantly, exuding confidence as he always does.

It does give Newt a little comfort, even if he continues to groan in despair for the next five minutes before Minho is pushing him out of the door.

 

\- - -

 

The magic-nerves reappear by the time Newt arrives at Teresa's house, escorted by Minho. There are – a lot of people there, actually, and he's not entirely sure why. They're all his _friends_ , obviously, and he gathers that the magic folk of them are there to help – there's Aris, Rachel, Alby, Winston and lord, does he need more human, normal friends.

Or not.

Gally and Fry are in the corner definitely there just to laugh at him, and he glares at their smug faces pointedly with as much ire as he can muster (which isn't much; he's exhausted and would very much like for this to be over).

Thomas is there too.

Newt doesn't have to see him to know that. He averts his eyes anytime he thinks they may wash over the dark haired boy, not wanting to face him after what he did. Sure, all of this has been accelerated by this stupid dumb Flare curse, or whatever it is, but he can't really deny that he _wanted_ it, can he? And he's not ready to let Thomas see that yet, is fearful that the truth will be written all over his face the moment their eyes connect. No. No, he isn't ready for any of that, so he avoids as best he can.

There's a stone plaque in the centre of Teresa's lounge that definitely wasn't there last week. Newt _really_ hates this magic stuff. It makes his skin crawl, and he knows he's not the only one thinking it because Gally (of course) just _has_ to shout out from the corner of the room:

“Oi, Newt – looks like you're about to be the next virgin sacrifice.”

“'M not a vir – ugh, forget it.” Blood rushes to the blonde's cheeks before he can stop it, and he raises his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer that all of this will be over soon.

He lets Teresa and Minho escort him to the stone, and tries not to notice how sombre everyone looks. Fucking Warlocks. It's always about the dramatics with them, he swears.

The stone is cold and lumpy and entirely uncomfortable, and gazing up into the faces of about six other people is not making the situation any easier for Newt. Attention has never been his strong suit in the first place, and all these eyes on him is making him want to crawl into a hole and hibernate for another ten years. But he wills himself to take a few deep breaths and let them do whatever it is they need to do.

It's over – quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

Other than a slight breeze that seems to scour the room, nothing else happens. He fidgets uncertainly on the plaque until Teresa smiles at him and nods, helping him into a sitting position.

“Was that – was the sacrificial plate really necessary?” he queries, brow furrowed.

The amusement on Minho's face tells him all he needs to know about that.

 

\- - -

 

It works.

Everything returns to normal. Newt sleeps peacefully and at a nice temperature and things are pleasant once more.

(He still has some dreams but they were there well before the curse was put into place).

There's just the issue of Thomas. More specifically, the fact that Thomas has been actively avoiding him since the curse was lifted and – it hurts. Far more than Newt would want people to know, but it's impossible to hide it. All of his friends can see the slouch in his posture, the ocean that whirls in his eyes, the unhappiness that seems to shroud him like a blackened shadow.

He knows that he can't blame Thomas for not wanting to see him, not after Newt very clearly overstepped the line between friendship and something more. And he knows just as well that he can't fully blame it on the curse, as much as he'd like to laugh it off and roll his eyes and act as though him liking Thomas was as crazy an idea as it sounded.

But that doesn't stop it from being painful.

Regardless of Newt's feelings for the other, the two had been impossibly close since the day they had met, and not having his best friend by his side was like missing a part of him. He had Minho, of course, and the others, but it wasn't the same – he felt... empty, almost. Unable to truly get back to that same level of happiness that he'd had before.

“Just talk to him, man.” Minho shakes his head, frowning down at his close ally. “Just go to his place and tell him. He'll understand. He's your best friend.”

“Yeah, Min – my best friend,” Newt runs a hand through his hair, words bitter and almost tinged with anger. “How the fuck am I supposed to explain any of this?”

He doesn't look up to see the sadness on Minho's face, refuses to meet his friend square on. “Tell him. You've held it in for long enough, man.”

And maybe Minho is right (he kind of, actually, usually is about this kinda thing), but it's _hard_. Newt has always found it hard to open up to people, to lay himself bare and let them know what he thinks, how he feels, and he doesn't want to risk losing Thomas forever.

He doesn't want to think about the fact that maybe he already has.

 

\- - -

 

It's accidental when he bumps into Thomas again, weeks after everything had happened. It should have been sooner, really, given that they have all the same friends and a lot of the same classes, but it still hits Newt like a punch to the gut when he lays eyes upon his friend.

If Thomas' expression is anything to go by, he feels the same.

“Can we – can we talk?” Newt stammers out despite himself, not quite realising how much he means it until it's out in the open. And Thomas looks as though he's about to say 'no', which – Newt can't let that happen. “Please, Tommy. Please.”

He doesn't know if it's the slight begging edge to his tone (which he'll burn crimson at later) or the drop of the fond nickname only he's allowed, but it seems to work. The tension seeps from the younger boy's shoulders and then they're crowding into a booth at the back of the coffee shop, Newt's hands closed around the mug in front of him just to stop them from shaking so obviously.

“So...”

“What – ”

They start at the same time, both laughing a little self-consciously, before Thomas nods at Newt, an invitation for him to start.

His mouth dries instantly, words catching in his throat, eyes trained only on the coffee in the mug. “Look, I – I'm really sorry, Tommy. About what happened. I didn't mean for … any of that. Ya know, the spell – curse – whatever... it had me a little messed up, right?”

Newt sneaks a glance up, frowning imperceptibly when he notes the twist of sadness on Thomas' expression. “Can we just put it past us?”

There's a moment of silence that seems to be never-ending.

“I should be saying sorry,” Thomas breathes out and there's a hint of a laugh there, almost bitter. “I'm a clunking wreck. How the heck did I go and curse my best friend, huh? Can't do anything right, can I?”

And Newt has always hated that self-deprecating tone of his, leans across the table to place a hand over his before he can second guess it. “Tommy, c'mon. It's fine. I mean... you aren't gonna win Warlock of the Year, but no permanent damage done, right?”

Again, a moment that leads on thick and quiet. Thomas is biting down hard on his lower lip, a battle going on behind his eyes that Newt doesn't quite understand (maybe doesn't want to).

“I dunno, Newt. Maybe there is.”

And that is – not what he wanted to hear. He pulls back immediately, retreats to his side of the table and swallows, dropping his gaze. “Uh. Right. I'm – it's okay if you don't wanna be friends anymore, I guess. I mean, it isn't, but I can deal with it – ”

“It's not that!” Thomas half shouts too quickly, earning them a few glances from others dotted around the shop. He drops his tone to that of a hushed whisper. “God, Newt, I could never not wanna be your friend. But I – cards on the table, I have to be honest with you. I didn't want to stop you, that day. When you – y'know,”

Newt feels his heart plummet into his stomach, feels his breath catch in his throat and finds himself unable to remember how to breathe, exactly, and then – “You mean – you wanted that – ?”

That self-deprecating laugh is back, and Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, grinds his teeth. “Yeah, Newt, I did. And I'm sorry, but I don't know if I can go back to just being friends knowing that it could be like – _that._ ”

The silence is deafening at this point.

Newt is the one to break it.

“You're a clunking idiot, Thomas – ” and then he's pulling Thomas across the table by the collar and pressing their lips together unceremoniously; messy and sloppy and all teeth and entirely _them_.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me @ newtsisms on tumblr!


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